


honey is it time to spin

by alongthewatchtower



Series: tell me you own me, give me them coins [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Dominance/submission, Exhibitionism, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Situational Humiliation, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:52:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongthewatchtower/pseuds/alongthewatchtower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Styles is contemplating getting drunk, but decides at the very least, he's definitely getting laid tonight.</p><p>He's thoroughly unprepared, however, for the reaction of the older gentleman in the beautiful suit - the suit Harry nearly ruins by spilling his drink everywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	honey is it time to spin

**Author's Note:**

> read the tags, yo, that's why they're there. one day, I shall become immune to Erika's encouragement, but today is not that day. un-beta'ed, finished at 5am, the usual. inspired by Louis in that damn suit. title from _off to the races_ by Lana Del Rey.

Harry is contemplating getting drunk.  
  
Proper sloshed, the stumble-out-of-a-club-and-cause-pap-hysteria kind of drunk. He’s at an event for - something? _Watches_ , he decides, studying the banners on the wall.  
  
He’s walked the red carpet, smiled at the cameras, flicked his trademark curls out of his face, and now he deserves a bloody drink. He deserves more than the single glass of champagne and three glasses of water he’s had so far. He catches the attention of the cute bartender who’s been offering to refresh his drink for the last ten minutes, takes the expensive flute with a wink. If nothing else, he’s getting laid tonight, he decides, turning on his heel - and running smack into something solid.  
  
Harry’s champagne goes flying, almost ruining the suit of the _very_  attractive gentleman in front of him. It’s a beautiful suit - _Tom Ford,_  Harry decides, and the man has a talented tailor, because it fits him _perfectly_ , a shade that’s somewhere between royal blue and navy that makes the blue of his eyes startling. He’s maybe early forties, grey at his temples and in the short scruff that’s somewhere between stubble and half-beard.  
  
“Oops,” he says, belatedly, realising he’s been staring, and his silver fox laughs.  
  
“It’s fine, pretty,” silver fox says, and Harry bites his lip with a coy smile. So it’s like _that_ , then.   
  
Harry abruptly realises the floor is slick underneath his feet, and looks down. Oh _damn._  
  
“I’ve ruined your shoes,” he says miserably. There’s no way he’ll have a chance with the man now, especially when he takes in exactly how expensive the leather brogues are.  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” the older man replies with a shrug. “Had ‘em for ages. No harm done.”  
  
Harry flashes the man his best smile, the cheeky, boy-next-door charm that’s ensured his meteoric rise. He knows the man’s lying - Harry did both catwalk and print for Burberry this season, knows the other man is wearing wingtip brogues worth a thousand pounds, in the “bittersweet chocolate” leather that’s not available in stores.  
  
“I think you owe me a drink, though, pretty,” the man adds. Oddly enough, the nickname doesn’t rankle, and Harry grins.  
  
“I’m Harry,” he says. “Harry Styles.”  
  
“I know,” the silver fox says with a wink, offers his hand. “Louis Tomlinson.”  
  
Louis Tomlinson’s handshake is firm and warm, and Harry realises with a start that he knows who the other man is - superstar music producer Louis Tomlinson, the one Grimmy refers to as his mortal twitter enemy, the self-made music publishing mogul.  
  
“Nice to meet you,” Harry manages. “Um… what would you like to drink?”  
  
“Scotch,” Louis says, then frowns, digging his phone out of his pocket. He looks at it for a moment, then flashes Harry a brilliant smile. “Come find me with it, yeah?”  
  
Louis disappears into the crowd, and Harry turns back to the bar with a sigh, flags down the eager bartender from before, orders another glass of bubbly and a tumbler of their best scotch. Drinks in hand, he turns back to see absolutely no sight of Louis.

*  
  
It takes him nearly five minutes to find the older man, tucked away in a corner. Louis looks up as he approaches, sliding his phone back into his pocket.  
  
“I thought you’d abandoned me,” Harry says lightly, passing over the expensive scotch, and Louis takes it. Their fingers brush in the trade-off, and Harry’s fingers tingle, the thrill shooting up his spine. Louis feels it too, if the way his gaze darkens is any indication.  
  
Louis plonks the glass down on a nearby plinth and hooks his arm around Harry’s waist. He’s shorter than Harry, but not by much, and he’s strong, manhandling Harry until he’s pressed up against the wall.  
  
Harry goes easily, licks his lips in anticipation, notes the way Louis can’t look away. He starts to smile, but then Louis is there, lips against his and a tongue seeking entrance to his mouth, slick and hot and talented against his own, leaving him breathless.  
  
Louis pulls away, licks his lips. He eyes Harry, who tries not to fidget under the gaze. “How much have you had to drink?”   
  
“One glass of champers,” Harry says, trying not to grin at the question, full of possibility. Louis wants to make sure he’s not drunk - that’s a fair indication that Harry’s getting lucky tonight, that he’s going home with someone who wants more than a sloppy fuck, and his cock is thickening at the thought.  
  
“Good,” Louis says with a nod. “You’ll want to remember this.”  
  
“Will I?” Harry asks with a smirk, rolling his hips against Louis’, cock on its way to fully hard.  
  
“Yes,” Louis says, and his hands pin Harry’s hips back against the wall. “You will.”  
  
He leans in close, and Harry is suddenly grateful this corner is so dim, that no-one can see him flush as Louis adds, “but only if you’re a good boy for me. Can you be a good boy, Harry?"  
  
“Yes,” Harry replies, but it comes out some croaky than sultry, his throat suddenly dry.  
  
“I bet you can,” Louis says, and his voice is light in Harry’s ear, casual. “I bet you’re so eager to please that you’d do anything for me, even in this room full of people.”  
  
Harry looks around nervously. It’s a dark corner, sure, but it’s still an event, full of photographers and people he knows and gossips he doesn’t.  
  
“I don’t-“  
  
“You can say no, Harry,” Louis says, pulling back slightly so he can meet Harry’s eyes. “You can say no, and walk away now.” One hand drifts from Harry’s hip to ghost over where Harry’s painfully hard in his jeans. “This, however, makes me think you’ll say yes to whatever I want you to do.”  
  
Harry bites his lip, feeling pinned by Louis’ intense gaze.  
  
“Well?” Louis asks, punctuating the question with a firm squeeze of Harry’s dick through the denim.  
  
“Yes,” Harry says.  
  
“Yes?” Louis repeats. “Even if I told you to rub up against me, to get yourself off here where anyone could see?”  
  
Harry flushes.   
  
Louis grins at the twitch of Harry’s cock against his hand, and Harry swallows. He’s pretty sure that his exhibitionist tendencies aren’t public knowledge, but Louis has him pegged, if his smirk is any indication. Either that, or Jamie Campbell Bower has a big mouth (well, okay, Harry’s cock has proven _that_  first hand), and has blabbed about their adventures during Paris fashion week, behind the racks at Burberry where they could be exposed at any moment.  
  
Louis’ thigh nudges up between Harry’s own, pulling him from his thoughts. Harry can’t stop the instinctive roll of his hips against the firm pressure that comes to rest against his cock, Louis’ knee braced on the wall between his legs.  
  
“You’re going to ride my thigh,” Louis tells him. “You’re going to ride my thigh until you make a mess in your tight jeans.”  
  
Harry moans, and rolls his hips. Louis grins at him. The music in the background changes to something with a thumping, heavy bass, and Harry grinds down in time to the beat, shameless. He’s mostly hidden by Louis’ body, but anyone who looked closely could probably recognise his movements for what they are - could probably recognise _him_ , he thinks, and the thought has him chasing orgasm much sooner than it should. Anyone could be watching, could be filming this, if Louis stepped away the whole party might see him hard in his jeans, flushed with arousal -  
  
“Are you going to come for me, Harry?”  
  
Harry grits his teeth, grinding his hips harder. Louis is _teasing_  him. “Yes,” he grits out.  
  
“Good,” Louis says, presses his thigh up harder. “Go on and come for me, then.”  
  
Harry shudders, and comes in his jeans.  
  
He feels like he’s been punched, cock twitching in his pants as his hips shudder against Louis’ thigh.  
  
“Oh, but you’d look so _pretty_  on my bed,” Louis says, voice low, and it sounds like a promise. Harry’s had other men tell him the same thing - rich men, attractive men, has fucked his way through his pick of them - but none of them have ever made him feel like Louis is right now, between the wall and the pressure of Louis’ thigh between his leg.  
  
“You’re fucking filthy,” Louis breathes in his ear.   
  
Harry shivers, then tilts his chin up in challenge. “You gonna take me home, then? Clean me up?”  
  
Louis laughs. “I never said anything about _cleaning you up_ ,” he says, and his hand presses low on Harry’s belly like he _knows_ , like he knows how much Harry needs to pee now he’s come, now the crotch of his jeans is warm and wet.  
  
Harry squirms away. “I need to-“  
  
“Meet me at the side entrance in two minutes,” Louis says.  
  
“Five,” Harry says, edging away. “I need to go to the bathroom, but I’ll be right-“  
  
“You’ll meet me at the side entrance in two minutes,” Louis says softly, “or you’ll have to find someone else to take you home.”  
  
Harry swallows. He doesn’t need to pee _that_  badly, and the come that’s rapidly cooling in his pants is going to be uncomfortable as fuck shortly, but more than anything else, right now he wants to go home with Louis. “I’ll meet you,” he says.  
  
Louis flashes him that smirk, pats Harry's hip, and then turns on his heel, disappearing into the crowd.  
  
Harry exhales shakily. He’s not sure when he started holding his breath, but he inhales again and it's heady, arousal and something else clouding his senses. He realises abruptly that he's still holding his glass of champagne, warming in his hand. He hasn't even had a sip.

He shakes his head, places his champagne on the tray of a passing server, and heads in the direction of the coat check.

*

Harry feels like a right idiot. He’s pretty sure it’s taken him more than two minutes to collect his coat and get outside, and he checks his watch despondently. Yep. Definitely more than two minutes. Just as he’s about to give up and head back inside, a sleek black Bentley rounds the corner and comes to a stop in front of him, a suited driver emerging.  
  
“Mr.Styles,” the driver says politely, opening the door of the Bentley.  
  
“Um,” Harry says, stepping off the curb with a little stumble that the driver’s too professional to smirk at. “Yes, that’s me.”  
  
“Very good, sir,” the man says, and Harry folds himself into the interior. The dark windows let in almost no light from the street, and the only way he knows he’s not alone is the glow of an iPhone illuminating a man in a very expensive suit.  
  
“About time,” Louis says from beside him.  
  
“Sorry,” Harry mutters. He’s not exactly sure what makes him apologise - Louis was later than _him_ , wasn’t he? But he says it anyway, folds his hands neatly in his lap and tries not to squirm in his seat.  
  
Louis makes a noncommittal noise, scrolling through his phone. When he glances sideways, Harry thinks he recognises Twitter, and flushes hotly at the dismissal.  
  
“Louis-“  
  
“I have a beautiful house,” Louis says, not looking up from his phone.  
  
Harry’s mouth closes with a snap. He’s not sure what that has to do with anything, but he’s going to listen just in case.  
  
“Bit big for just one person,” Louis continues, “but it’s really quite something.” His eyes flick up to meet Harry’s. “You’re going to fit right in,” he says, and looks back down at his phone.  
  
Harry shifts, hopes he’s not making a mess of the expensive leather with his ruined jeans.  
  
“When I get home,” Louis says casually, “I’m going to put you on your knees, pretty. You’ve been so good, you deserve it."

*  
  
Louis is the kind of rich that means gated security, a man who nods at the car as they pull into the drive, a door that’s unlocked and opens silently under Louis’ hand as he leads Harry inside. He tosses his coat aside, over a couch that looks like it’s worth thousands, and Harry does the same. He’s nervous, biting his lip and unsure in the silence of the house. Louis hasn’t said anything since they exited the car, and Harry just trails behind him, eyes wide as he takes in Louis’ house. It’s not _flashy_ , not really, but that was a chandelier above the staircase as they entered the foyer, and Louis has spent serious pounds on his house - everything is tasteful and expensive, and Harry feels so very out of place in his come-soaked jeans.  
  
He shakes his head as if to clear it of such thoughts, as Louis opens a pair of ornate wooden doors into what is obviously his study. _You_   _are expensive_ , Harry reminds himself. _You’re not out of place._ He looks around himself curiously. The walls are lined with full bookshelves, and it’s all dark wood and expensive-looking leather.  
  
Louis drops carelessly into the leather armchair before a lit fireplace. He shifts, slumping until he’s comfortable, and raises an eyebrow at Harry, who’s frozen a few steps into the room.  
  
“Come on, then,” he says, inclines his head at the rug before him. “On your knees, pretty.”  
  
Harry flushes, and makes himself take a step forward that’s more tentative than he would like. “I really need the bath-“  
  
“On your knees,” Louis repeats, not unkindly, and Harry crosses the room in a few short paces, is folding to his knees before he can give it much thought.  
  
“Good boy,” Louis says, smiling down at him.  
  
Harry shifts. The position isn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s going to be hell on his knees if he stays here for an extended period of time.  
“I need-“  
  
“You need what I tell you to,” Louis says, and Harry’s played submissive before, but it’d been just that - _playing_ , a bit of slap-and-tickle, holding someone down or bruises on his arms from being pinned onto mattresses. This is different - being on his knees before Louis feel like something earth-shattering. He’s been so very reckless tonight, getting off in a room full of people, but he feels utterly safe under Louis’ control, like he’s _protected_. Like he’s _special._  
  
Louis unbuttons his pants slowly, lazily, as if he’s not hard, as if his erection isn’t ruining the line of his tailored pants. “Come here,” he says, drawing his dick out and fisting it once, twice. Harry licks his lips at the sight, and Louis laughs. It’s not a mean sound, but it makes Harry shiver.  
  
“I need to pee,” he says, but he shuffles forward regardless, places his hands flat on Louis’ thighs.  
  
“I know, pretty,” Louis says, free hand cupping Harry’s chin and urging him closer. The hand around Louis' cock nudges it up against Harry’s lips, and he opens his mouth obligingly, sucks around the head.  
  
“When you make me come,” Louis says, feeding Harry more of his cock, “when you make me come, then you can let go.”  
  
Harry swallows at that, reflexive, and Louis hisses. “Oh, do you like the sound of that, pretty? Swallowing down my come and making such a mess of your tight pants?”  
  
The hand on Harry’s chin moves to the back of his head, a gentle press that encourages him further down. Harry swallows again, determined to show Louis how good he can be. He’s good at this, he knows, loves the weight of a man’s cock against his tongue, coaxing sounds of pleasure from his partner.  
  
“That’s it,” Louis says, fingers tangling in Harry’s hair, dragging the curls back, off his face. “Fuck, but you’re good at this.” His hips thrust up, and Harry gags, but presses himself back down when Louis draws away. He can do this. Harry’s fingers curl around Louis’ hips, encouraging him to thrust again.  
  
Louis does, one hand keeping Harry’s head still as he thrusts up, as his cock hits the back of Harry’s throat. Harry swallows around it, wills his gag reflex down and just _takes_  it, until Louis is pulling back and pushing him away.  
  
Harry reels back, gasping, arms thrust behind him for balance as his bum comes to rest on his heels. He feels - _obscene_ , mouth tingling and swollen as he tries to catch his breath.  
  
“Yesss,” Louis hisses, and Harry watches as Louis' fingers tighten on his cock, knows abruptly what’s about to happen -  
  
He closes his eyes just in time to be painted with the warm streaks of Louis’s come, hitting his cheekbone and his open mouth. He darts his tongue out when the first of it hits his lips. Harry’s never felt particularly strongly about the taste of come, but Louis tastes sweet and he finds he doesn’t mind the taste, not at all.  
  
“Such a pretty, filthy mess,” Louis says, and there’s the press of something firm against Harry’s stomach, against his cock. Harry opens his eyes and looks down, blinking his eyelashes against the come that threatens to slip into his eye. One of the beautiful brogues he’s already made a mess of once tonight - one of Louis’ bloody _shoes_  presses against him, heel digging into his cock, toes pressing down over his bladder.  
  
“ _Louis_ ,” he groans, darting a glance up at the man.   
  
Louis is still leaning back in his chair, sinful and expensive against the leather, still jacking himself off even as his cock twitches through the aftershocks. “Come on, then, pretty,” he says, pressing the ball of his foot down harder.  
  
Harry bites his lip. “Lou-“  
  
“Do it,” Louis orders, and that’s all his body needs to let go. Harry digs his fingers into the rug beneath him - oh fuck he’s making such a _mess_  - and feels the warmth spread over his crotch. His cock twitches, the immediate relief in his bladder tempered by the pain as his prick tries to get hard. Harry groans, feeling his piss run down his legs, soaking his jeans and the rug beneath his knees.  
  
“Good boy,” Louis croons.  
  
“Louis, can I - I need to come,” Harry says, feels the blush in his cheeks as he cups the hard bulge of his cock, currently encased in sodden denim.  
  
“Hmmm,” Louis says, drawing out the syllable, smirk wicked as he looks down at Harry. “Seeing as you’ve already made such a mess, I guess there’s no harm in letting you rub off against me.”  
  
Harry’s mouth drops open in shock. It shouldn’t be a surprise, seeing as Harry’s been made to come in his pants once already, and, oh yeah, _pee all over himself_ , but he’s aching to finally get his fingers around his prick, to jerk himself off. He rises up on his knees again, one hand thrust out for balance so he can get to his feet, intending to climb up into Louis’ lap -  
  
“No,” Louis says, and he’s smiling now, expression kind as he looks down at Harry. “Against my leg, pretty. I’m not having you ruin my chair, but you can hump my leg until you come.”  
  
Harry feels hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He’s never been so humiliated in all his life, but it’s also true that his dick has never been harder, that he’s never been quite so aroused as he is right now,   
  
“There you go,” Louis croons as Harry starts to rub himself up against Louis’ leg, wet denim catching on the wool garbadine of Louis’ suit trousers. Harry drops his head to Louis’ thigh, cheeks flaming, and Louis runs gentle fingers through his hair as Harry ruts against his leg.  
  
“Such a good boy,” Louis says, and Harry is inclined to believe him. Louis’ voice is gentle and reassuring, and Harry comes.  
  
Louis is gentle, after, helps Harry to his feet and holds him as he sways, legs tingling after so long on his knees. Harry lets himself be undressed right there on the rug, pliant and malleable under Louis’ hands. There’s a soak in a giant tub, after, and Louis holds him close and traces nonsensical patterns on the skin of his back and tells him how good he’s been. It’s not until later, when they’re tucked up in Louis’ big bed, when Harry is drowsy with warmth and in a safe, floaty place, that Louis says, “I’m going to America tomorrow.”  
  
Harry sighs into Louis’ chest. He wasn’t expecting a happily-ever-after, not really, but it would have been nice to cook Louis breakfast in the morning, to thank this beautiful man who’d walked into Harry’s life and hit all of his kinks so perfectly, who’d made Harry feel warm and safe and loved.  
  
“Hey,” Louis says, jostling him. “None of that, Harry. I was going to ask if you wanted to come.”  
  
Harry can’t stop his grin. He kisses the skin underneath his head. He’s got nowhere to be for the next ten days - he doesn’t have luggage or clean pants, but his passport’s in his jacket, and he wants more than anything to be impulsive, to jet off to America with an attractive older man who likes him.   
  
“I guess I could be persuaded,” Harry says lightly.  
  
Louis snorts. “Oh good. I was worried there for a moment."

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! let me know what you think below, or come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.downintinpanalley.tumblr.com/)


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